The angel has already said, Be not afraid. He’s said, The power of the Most High will darken you. Her eyes are downcast and half closed. And there’s a long pause — a pause here of forever — as the angel crowds her. She backs away, her left side pressed against the picture frame.

He kneels. He’s come in all unearthly innocence to tell her of glory — not knowing, not remembering how terrible it is. And Botticelli gives her eternity to turn, look out the doorway, where on a far hill floats a castle, and halfway across the river toward it juts a bridge, not completed —

and neither is the touch, angel to virgin, both her hands held up, both elegant, one raised as if to say stop, while the other hand, the right one, reaches toward his; and, as it does, it parts her blue robe and reveals the concealed red of her inner garment to the red tiles of the floor and the red folds

of the angel’s robe. But her whole body pulls away. Only her head, already haloed, bows, acquiescing. And though she will, she’s not yet said, Behold, I am the handmaiden of the Lord, as Botticelli, in his great pity,

lets her refuse, accept, refuse, and think again.